


Answers

by Fostofina



Series: The Old Gods and The New. [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Age Difference, Drabbles, Kind of cracky chapter 3, Stark-centric, The Old Gods - Freeform, The Old Gods and The New, The Seven, ebon is still a nice word, prayers, probably the only chapter that's not completely applicable to cannon though
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-30
Updated: 2016-03-23
Packaged: 2018-05-04 05:48:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5322809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fostofina/pseuds/Fostofina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Catelyn prayed to each of the Gods, and now they take care of each of her children.</p><p>A sequel of sorts to prayers, from another point of view.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Warrior

Brother…

He was his brother in arms.

The Warrior sees every battle, from beyond the shadows of Asshai where only the fires of R’hollr glow to beyond the wall where only the undead dare to make a sound.  He’s seen warriors from ancient times hold their swords and cry out in defiance against those who dare threaten them or their own. How many times has he watched their backs while they cut down their foes? How many times has he whispered the secrets of battle in their ears while they planned their next assault? How many of them has he welcomed in his halls after a glorious death?

But even that the cowards stole from him. 

They lured him away from the battlefield and butchered him like an animal while his mother watched. 

_Alas wolf-mother, it was not my place to defend him._

 

* * *

 

He was to be the first wolf-brother to enter his halls. 

His glorious halls had always housed the warriors of the west: Furious stags and soaring falcons, roaring lions and fortitudinous trouts, cunning foxes and prickling flowers, even the sun’s poisonous children and the mighty dragons feasted with him every night. 

Everyone but the idiot ( _strategic!_ ) wolves and the foolish ( _unbending!_ ) krakens that is.

Not that he cared. 

A god was above such things.

They were still stupid though.

 

* * *

 

He would not answer the wolf-mother.

Let her pray. 

If the wolves wanted him around, then an actual _wolf_ should pray for him. 

Maybe the next mother, but definitely not the first one, the Smith would never _ever_ let him live it down if he just answered the first request the wolves throw his way. 

He was sure she’d stop in a few days, that’s just how prayers went. They’d always start out fervent and strong, but then they’d wane a little in each day until they’re completely forgotten within a week, maybe a fortnight if the supplicant is truly desperate.

Hers didn’t.

They only got stronger the next day, and the next one and the one after that. Until one day, a moon later, his actual throne _shook_ from her screams. And he knew that a decision must be made.

How had she even managed to pray for so long? He thought of how sore her trouty throat must be, how scabbed her delicate knees must have become and he wondered how often did they bleed. How much does her noble back hurt from kneeling and how her river eyes must burn and sting with tears? Did she even have any tears left?

But even so, she held firm, crying to him against all those who dare threaten her or her own. Voice unwavering and shining with defiance against despair and beyond reason, resonating through the walls of the sept and all the way to his trembling throne.

A true warrior indeed.

A warrior bearing a warrior.

 

* * *

 

His hair was hot red fire, his eyes were cold blue flames, his spirit was alight and his heart was ablaze.

Good.

His bastard brother could dance circles around him with a sword.

Not so good.

Well he wouldn’t call it _dancing_ ; true warriors don’t _dance_ away their battles, even if the stranger had a strange glint in his eyes when he spoke of such flowery thoughts.

Honestly, the little wolf is more than decent with the sword.

But still the wolf-mother is praying for another son. “Worthy of the Stark house” she says and his blood boils in his veins when those prayers reach his ears.

Of course no one of the others would dare to ignite his fury and answer her, why does she not see how brilliant he’s shaping him to be? He’s grooming him to be a leader _not_ a soldier. Who inspired him to train with his bastard brother and treat him as one would treat a loyal friend if it were not himself? Who else helps him grasp leadership and strategy? Who does she think grants him the commanding presence that charms those around him?

Who does she think taught him to use a lance so well so that he may always surprise his enemies with it? The master-at-arms?

Wolves are not made for brutish combat, they are smarter than that.

So why does she not see her wolf’s strengths? Why does she expect a cold wind to act like a mountain?

She’ll see one day.

Although by the looks of it, there won’t be much fighting to _show_ anything.

 

* * *

‘I can show you a way to make him fight!’ the Crone says, her quiet brother standing at her side and the Warrior’s eyes are wide open at her suggestion.

‘But Crone…’ 

His wolf-brother has no thirst for battle and impulsive as he was, he did not wish to fight for glory, to go after the most ferocious prey during the hunt. The wolf was not the kind of warrior who dreamt of razing cities and bending them to his will. 

He was the kind of warrior that provided and protected.

He would fight only to keep the pack safe and happy.

A _very_ irritating quality.

Stupid wolves! 

The Crone only looks at him with her knowing eyes and she smiles, knowing that it wouldn’t be a betrayal to his wolf brother because powerful as they are, they cannot make his mortal enemies do something if they don’t truly want to do it.

 However, they _can_ give them a small _nudge._

The sweet smell of sweat and blood and clashing steel reaches his nose and before he’s even realized it, a predatory, vulturous smile had already graced his face.

 

* * *

 

Yes!

Yes! 

 _Yesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesy_ esyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyes

How he missed the battlefield of the west, and it’s been _so_ _long_ too!

 _And the northerners are so bloodthirsty!_ The heat of the fight was intoxicating; the taste of copper addictive, the sight of blood was frenzying and the feeling of familiar giddiness was almost overwhelming. _So very clever and bloodthirsty!_

The war table was where he watched with fierce pride as his wolf-brother showed everyone his true mettle, true leadership without an inch of false pretense, and he thought with such smugness about how glad he was that he answered the wolf-mother when she called out to him and how the smith can absolutely eat it.

He has forged him from a cold wind to a winter hurricane, a force of nature that will sweep anyone foolish enough to stand in the way. 

 _Yes!_ The word buzzed like a chant in the warrior’s head. _Yes! Yes! Yes!_

 

* * *

 

Anger sang in his veins, and spikes of jagged cold fury sprang in his heart.

Cowards. Cravens. Weaklings. Caitiffs. Dastards. Knaves. Scum. Invertebrates. Louses. Worms. Curs. 

They killed him under guest right. 

Under. Guest. Right. 

They took away his wolf-brother’s honorable death; his right to sit in halls with his forefathers. 

They soiled his warrior’s corpse.

The Wolf-mother had laughed so hard before they killed her. Why was she laughing so hard?

 

* * *

‘What happens now?’ his Wolf-brother asks.

‘They think themselves cunning’ the warrior answers ‘We’ll see who wins, them or I?' 

They’ve had their fun, now it was his turn…

For now the warrior looks at his wolf-brother straight in the eyes, and presents him with a choice ‘Pick your weapon, Wolf-brother, and fight me.’ 

The Wolf-brother stares at him, aghast, as if the warrior had sprouted a second head.

‘If you best me’ he clarifies ‘you may yet enter my halls and feast’

Determination replaces all apprehension in his brother’s eyes as he stalks towards the sword and picks it up.

The fight won’t be ending soon. 

Until then...

_Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes!_

 

* * *

 


	2. The Crone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear I am not dead!
> 
> I'm also SO sorry for the delay (finals followed by holidays followed by family vacation). Thank you so much for waiting!
> 
> I admit I'm not sure if I captured Sansa very well, But I assure you that I tried my damnest. However, if there's anything off or wrong then just tell me and I promise that I will fix it, my goal is to give the fans of the Stark kids a good time =D
> 
> Anyhooo, I hope you enjoy ;)

Apprentice…

The wolf girl was her… 

_Wolf girl? What an atrocious way to refer to a young lady of noble upbringing! And what is the meaning this? Why are my words in italics?_

Ummmm…

_Oh my dear narrator, you don’t have to trouble yourself anymore. I assure you that I am perfectly capable of telling my own story._

What are you…?

 _Oh don’t act so surprised,_ I _am_ the Crone after all _._

I’m honestly _shocked that none of the others figured out the truth yet,_ now my dear, please make yourself scarce. I may be just a character in a story but it is my own tale _and I shall be the one to tell it._

* * *

 

Where do I begin?

Well is suppose it all started when Lady Catelyn came to the sept and prayed for a daughter, she didn’t ask me of course. For you see, the newly married ones always ask the Maiden when it comes to having daughters. 

But Lady Catelyn Tully had prayed to me to give her a prosperous marriage.

And she thanked me.

My dear, you would be shocked by the number of fools who come pray to me then never come back for thanks, although in hindsight if they were in any way intelligent then they wouldn’t have asked to begin with.

They all ask me for wisdom and for guidance in the time of hardships, never for the simple joys of life.

I suppose it could’ve been worse, I mean _no one_ prays to my twin. 

And when she asked for a daughter, my idiot of a sister didn’t listen. She could’ve taken part in the life of a northern lady, it was a precedent and she didn’t listen! 

Such a shame really, you know I still wonder what could have ever prompted that reaction?

It would have been a waste of opportunity in her hands anyway.

A girl with a lady mother who knew gratitude and an honorable, humble father, such parents could bestow a beautiful heart on her. A girl like that could have been what I was searching for. 

She would have been such a _dreadful_ waste…

* * *

 Sansa Stark wasn’t hers to claim, but it seemed that my sweet sister took interest in her anyway. 

In every new generation, there are a few maidens that are chosen by, well, The Maiden.

These girls would always be as beautiful as the dawn and the sea and the snow upon the mountains, they would sing like swallows and dance like with the grace of a gazelle. They would be like a walking poem, an exquisite piece of moving art. 

And just like any piece of art, they would be essentially useless. Very sad really. 

Not unless they seek what I have to offer. 

Then they could become something terrifyingly powerful.

And for the most part they sought it, all but princess Daenerys Targaryen and Lady Sansa Stark; the poor princess had no one but that repulsive brother of hers and Lady Sansa...

Well, my sister’s qualities were certainly being reflected in her. Intelligent as she proved to be, the young lady was still so naïve and ignorant of how the world worked, and my sister’s shallowness threatened to choke her heart. 

And in such a critical age too!

Oh my darling reader, it just _had_ to be rectified. The young lady _had_ to leave her den in the north; she _had_ to learn by doing if she was going to achieve what I knew her to be capable of.

And so the king came, a betrothal plan stewing in his mind 

My sister was terribly excited you see, every time she looked at young lady Stark her ears turned red and a little squeal escaped her. And she would look at me and say ‘See Crone? I told you that she would be better off with me anyway. It’s a good thing that I took her from you after all’.

Oh, so precious and so, _so_ innocent.

But she had played her part.

And it just _had_ to be rectified.

* * *

 

I took back what’s rightfully mine, for my lovely sister had no interest in sadness and tragedy. 

This absolutely unexpected turn of events drew the attention of the others though.

The Father wondered what I planned to do with a senseless girl who would unjustly execute a boy with a lie. 

The Mother questioned what I intended for a cruel girl who would torment her sister.

The Warrior pondered what I had in store for a girl who could not even defend herself against a sword.

The Smith mused about what I hoped for a girl with no strength or means to restore and build.

My dear twin, ever perceptive, said nothing.

Which, in all honesty, revealed a thing or two about everyone else.

I am still truly baffled that even after living for thousands of years, they _still_ cannot manage to look inside of those who don’t appeal to them at first glance.

I admit that the beauty bestowed upon her was such a _completely_ unexpected bout of good luck, for the color of her eyes and the shape of her body was not what defined her to begin with. It was always what was inside of her head.

What was inside of her heart.

For you see, my dear, I was determined to show them who this so called senseless, cruel, and weak girl truly was.

My girl.

My apprentice. 

* * *

 

It is widely known among my brethren that my methods can be quite harsh. 

Either my apprentices succeed or die, I do not care for half-measures.

So you see darling, I was so _very_ lucky that my assessments proved true.

Lady Stark is battered and defeated, I’ve forced her eyes to open to the world, and I have not allowed her to close them again. She is shamed and humiliated and stripped of honor and family, of happiness and grief. 

Of desire and faith.

And yet.

And yet every time I challenged her self-control, she became like a great arctic gale, fluid but unyielding.

When I spilled in the boy king’s ear the slanders to her family’s great name, and had him make her kiss what remained of her father’s sword. She had never let his words into her heart; never let them fester inside of her.

When I had the queen, that the young had admired for so long, offer her advice and cow her into submission, she gave her what she wanted to hear and never let her own hatred or the queen’s patronizing pity dominate her mind.

I had pushed her into a web of betrayal by her would be rescuers, into an unbecoming marriage to an enemy, a much older drunkard, and she stood firm.

She was not above taking advice from even the hound, but she did not take it blindly.

Instead, she stood high when the queen was planning their deaths and she showed every one how a leader acts, she had rescued a man’s life despite her delicate situation, and in time she did not need me to open her eyes for her any longer.

Well, lady Sansa was always such an avid learner when it came to courtly matters. 

Sansa Stark learned from those around her, no matter how painful it was.

And Alayne Stone had played the great Petyr Baelsih.

From a wounded wolf to a soaring falcon, the young lady had metamorphosed. Yet she did not forget where she came from.

And that’s what I made sure to show to Lady Catelyn as she floated in that river and drew her last breaths.

* * *

 “I see you’ve realized everything”

“Yes, but then again I might be only dreaming of what I think is happening”

The Crone sat in the Godswood, a silken tea table set before her. In front of her sat a young lady with striking fiery hair and clear blue eyes. One might wonder what such a fine table was doing there, but this was the world of dreams and the only logic that dreams abided by was their own.

“I just want to know one thing.” the young lady asked “you did not have to accept my mother’s prayer all these years ago, so why do it?”

“Well it’s obvious isn’t it, darling?” The Crone took a sip of her cup “because of who you are, I saw potential in you.”

“But it doesn’t make any sense” the young girl countered “Anyone with a strong enough will, if put in my situation, would have learned the game and emerged. So why? _Why_ did it _have_ to be me? Just look at the Tyrells and Petyr Baelish and Lord Varys! They are much better at playing this game than I am!”

“Oh my dear” The Crone’s eyes glinted “The problem with all of those who learn to play the game of thrones is that as the time passes, they start to sacrifice pieces of themselves. And slowly but surely, they all end up completely changed from who they once were, with nothing at the end of the road but death and destruction….”

“…Anyone who tries to play the game of thrones ends up being a pawn of someone else, and eventually the _game_ plays _them…._ ”

“…I have been looking for someone different, someone who can brave the world and still retain the tenderness in their heart someone who can play the game and remain true to themselves, someone who will always remember what is important.”

The girl’s eyes suddenly glistened and her voice came out hoarse “ How can you even possibly say that while thinking of me? I, who sold out her sister for someone who killed her wolf. I, who sold out her father to someone that killed him. I, who did nothing more than cry myself to sleep every night. I, who never spoke when they slandered my family. I, who…Who…”

Her shoulders started to tremble as she took in a few shaky breaths, and The Crone asked, “ Did you want to kill you father?”

The Lady’s head snapped up “Of course not!”

“Can you somehow reverse the clock?” 

“No…I cannot”

“Then you must never let your mistakes fester my dear, I assure you it’s quite a frightful look”

The girl slowly nodded as The Crone continued “You have survived many ordeals, will you help me fulfill my promise to your mother?”

“What promise?” The young woman said quietly, her gaze suddenly intense.

“When she was dying, I made a promise to your mother that you would make it after all” The Crone reached for a sweet “dare I say that it gave her some final rest.”

“Then I will do it!” Sansa Stark answered immediately, a ghost of a smile playing on her lips. “ No matter what it takes, I will do this and I will not become one of them...”

“...I swear it by the Old Gods and The New...”

“...I **_will_** survive them all!”


	3. The Stranger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It gets AUish, but hey, it's a story about The Seven. Warning for Age Gaps in Romance. (Yep, romance, you've been warned) Also, THANK YOU SO MUCH SKYSAMUELLE YOU ROCK!!!!

She was…

What was she?

She was his…

No, that’s not right either, she wasn’t _his_ anything.

She was Arya’s.

And he _would not_ lay claim to a title that was not freely given.

So for now she shall simply remain Arya, and he, the Stranger.

* * *

 

No one has ever seen his face; in fact the only reason he knows he even _has_ one is because he sees it in his reflections. 

All anyone else sees is what their eyes show them, which is good for when he accompanies the dead to their destination, it usually makes them see a loved one instead.

He likes comforting the dead. 

He likes listening to them as he guides them, their tales of lost hopes and realized dreams… 

Of past regrets. 

They would tell him of all the evils they had committed, of all the injustice they’ve inflicted upon others, and he would try to ease their hurt. But they were always so confusing to him. 

 _What is good and evil?_

_What is right and what is wrong?_

They seemed to hold some new meaning for each person. His twin had tried to explain it to him once, but then she gave up and decided that he would never come to see the line that divides opposites.

Each one of his brethren had a preference for a certain type of people: Wise leaders, caring mothers, fierce warriors, beautiful maidens, cunning players, resilient builders… 

But for him there were no thieves and knights, no cruel and compassionate, no cravens and dauntless, no ugly and lovely, no naive and shrewd, no resolute and feeble, no wicked and pious. 

There were only people.

And he welcomed all.

For he is not a judge.

He is only death.

* * *

 

What a strange surprise it was!

When Cat kneeled and asked him for a child.

Him! Of all people!

Well, she _did_ ask all the others first, but everyone else usually stops there. 

But Cat still kneeled in the modest sept, and she asked him for a life.

_Not to take but to grant._

To grant a life, to _care_ for a life.

‘The others fear our dear warrior brother’ The Crone had informed him ‘He’s dreadfully incensed at the Lady’s request of another son.’

Then she looked at him with _that_ twinkle in her eyes, the one that appeared whenever she found anything to elevate her boredom ‘ although I suppose that they fear _you_ even more. Dare I say that I find it hard to imagine anyone opposing you and your power?’

Sooo….

The Warrior was angered because she wished for another son?

_What is a son from a daughter?_

How strange…

* * *

 

Cat asked for life, and so he gave her just that. 

The girl is full to the brim with it. She jumps and plays and sneaks until her legs can’t possibly carry her anymore. When she laughs, it booms through the air like a trumpet. And when she screams, it’s like a hundred raging war horns are echoing from the inside of her chest.

She loves running around in the forest; he can see it in the way her grey eyes shimmer every time she rides a horse or climbs a tree. The Stranger sees the fascination that blossoms on her every feature whenever she watches a swordfight.

But then she has to go back inside. Where it hurts.

Where there are scolding septas and teasing peers and disapproving looks from her mother.

It’s not that she was exactly lonely, but perhaps she’d like a friend. Maybe someone who wasn’t her brother, only a stranger who would _completely_ choose to be her friend.

And thus he came to her, and in his face she saw a butcher’s boy. 

* * *

 

‘Hey Arya?’

‘Yes?’ 

‘You’ve been upset all week, I thought you liked your new pup…’ 

‘I do!’

‘Then what’s wrong?’

‘It’s stupid…’ 

‘Come’on, I promise I won’t laugh.’

‘Well’ She mulled about it as she chewed her bottom lip ‘It’s just that…you know how I got this new sword’

‘Needle. Right?’ 

She nodded ‘I want to learn how to use it, but I don’t think I’ll be allowed to. I told myself that maybe I’ll get the chance when I’m older, but… I’m not so sure if that’s true.’ 

Mycah cocked his head to the side ‘what is age truly? What is old and young? What is time?’ 

_Not even the Crone may know the answer to that one._

Arya let out a small chuckle ‘you’re being especially weird today.’

Yes, he was. Wasn’t he? 

Silly Mycah.

‘Tell you what?’ He proposed ‘how about we go find some sticks and we can start training?’

The smile she flashed him almost made all the beating she gave him, later at practice, worthwhile. 

* * *

 ‘I'm a girl’ Arya objected.

"Boy, girl," Syrio Forel said. "You are a sword, that is all.’ He clicked his teeth together. "Just so, that is the grip. You are not holding a battle-axe, you are holding a – ‘

‘- needle," Arya finished for him, fiercely.

‘Just so. Now we will begin the dance.’

He was supposed to take care of her, and that’s just what he intended to do.

If Mycah could no longer help her, then Syrio will have to do.

Yes.

_I am meant to watch over her._

That’s what he told himself, when he taught her how to wield her needle.

And that’s what Syrio told himself, when he gave his life so she could escape the Lannister king and his court.

* * *

 

‘Who are you?’ She demanded

The Stranger glanced at her through his hood ‘Are you not more interested in where you are?’

‘I…’ She looked at the carved face of the weirwood ‘this isn’t the godswood at all. Is it?’

‘I cannot see any reason why it can’t be.’ He reasoned.

Her eyes flickered to his form again ‘I am starving to death…’

‘Just so.’ He answered.

‘I’m not leaving this world!’ She furiously insisted.

‘I am afraid that is how it must be.’

 _At the very least she will be safe_.

‘Not today.’ She demands.

‘I’m quite sure that the only thing your instructor meant by that was to stay safe, so you wouldn’t be in this situation to begin with.’ He felt compelled to point out.

‘Please’ She begged, her eyes getting shiny ‘not yet! I need to find my father, I need to see my sister…I…’

A sound sounding perilously close to a chocked sob escaped her.

The first friend he ever made is trying to keep from crying.

His heart feels like someone stabbed it with a jagged shard of glass.

And then punched it in. 

Several times.

‘Please don’t…do…that.’ Why was he so flustered all of a sudden?

_Deep breaths, she’s looking at you like you’re an idiot. Get it together!_

‘I won’t take you away.’ He finally decided.

‘At what price?’ She questioned ‘if you really are the Stranger, then you’ll want your due.’

She bit her bottom lip ‘do you want me to kill someone? Is that it? A life for a life?’

Ah, Yes.

The words that the servant he sent taught her.

‘What for?’ He couldn’t help but chuckle ‘Death is a fate that no one can escape, in any case, I will eventually take you and everyone else away with only a little patience.’

‘But you won’t just let me go, will you?’

‘Just so.’ He countered ‘I will have to take your memory of this meeting.’

After all, if people hear her rambling about meeting him they’ll either hurt her or lock her up.

‘Why?’ She demanded. 

‘My reasons are my own, now please Arya’ he approached her ‘Wake up!’

* * *

The second time they met, he had just guided her brother. 

She’s not really dying, but she’s wishing that she was.

‘Hello, Arya’ He greeted her in her dreams, a place where forgotten memories are but common knowledge ‘are you ready to come with me now?’ he wondered.

Her eyes, distant and hollow, snapped to him and suddenly gleamed all at once.

 _What face do you see when you look at me now?_

Her body started to shake.

And then she screamed. Her ancient, anguished voice echoing across the godswood as her fists reached his chest. She struck him once, then again, and again and again once more.

He let her do as she pleased until she finally relented, and slumped against him.

His poor friend.

So lost, and so, _so_ lonely.

Clumsily, he wrapped his arms around her and kept still until they both stopped shaking.

‘I can take you to them if that is your wish?’ he offered.

‘Not today’ she answered.

Of course _she_ would refuse.

And of course he would let her go.

Silly him.

* * *

 

He’s glad that she came to his house; she’s less likely to suffer there.

His servants offer her training and advice; they teach her everything from mastering languages and speech to seeing lies and changing faces. And for the most part she really is a quick learner, she never complains and always tries her hardest. They told her to be still and she became an unmoving statue, they made her go blind and she used all of her other gifts instead.

They gave her a first assignment, to kill a crook of a merchant, and she poisoned him with his own gold.

 _How very typical of her._ He couldn’t help but smile.

They had succeeded in teaching her almost everything that would turn her into a permanent resident of his house…

But she is not No One.

And if there’s anything at all that he learned about Arya, it is that no matter the circumstances, she _will not_ forget who she is. 

_Perhaps time will change that._

The though brought him a strange mix of relief and disquiet.

* * *

 

 The next few years went on quietly.

 Where she was a poor beggar girl, he was a lowly street urchin. Where she was Mercy the mummer’s apprentice, he was Memmio the tailor’s boy. Where she was learning from the courtesans about culture and allure, he was but a humble servant.

 The Stranger thought they would always dance this dance, until they day when she would let him whisk her away from this world.

 He was wrong.

 It was only until she was nine and ten.

* * *

 The girl who is Vorenya grabbed the boy who is Tyto by the elbow and dragged him into an alley, he tried to speak but she shushed him before a word left his lips.

‘Do you think I’m an idiot?’ She asked with a perfectly arched brow.

 Ah.

 Arya then.

‘What do you mean?’ Tyto asked. 

‘Really now?’ She demanded incredulously ‘I _know_ who you are!’

‘And who would that be?’ He countered.

‘You’re someone from the temple.’ She huffed out a breath of air ‘you’re here to observe me. Aren’t you?’

He wanted to answer but it seemed that she was not going to let it happen ‘ I should have know from the first day, you’re Memmio, and Setius, and that servant Beru and all of the others too!’

‘There!’ She shoved his chest ‘Run back to the kindly man and tell him I passed his stupid test.’

_What?_

‘How did you…?’ There was no way for her to know this.

‘You’re jesting. Right?’ She said dryly, her expression thoroughly unimpressed.

‘I _am_ supposed to tell him how you found out.’ The master assassin replied.

‘You’re not even trying to trick me anymore!’ She sounded exasperated ‘ you’ve had the same damn face for the last three months! No matter who you were being!’

Every ounce of his being froze.

His face.

His unseen face. Ever changeable and assimilating to whatever the beholder expects of it. The face that no one but himself, not even his sister, saw.

She saw it.

The Stranger looked back at Arya.

Her expression was fierce, and her eyes showed intelligence and a certain innocence that, despite everything, had still endured. Her hands, strong hands that had also shown kindness when they could, clasped his own in a firm grip.

His gaze followed every blink of her lashes, the rise and fall of her breath, every movement of her lips.

It was entrancing.

The bright, determined spirit that dwelled behind Vorenya’s face was so, _so_ very beautiful.

And he was in love with it, The Stranger realized.

_When had this happened?_

‘You’re doing that thing again’ She said gently, her voice merely over a whisper ‘when you start thinking away and you forget where you are.’

‘You do not know me at all.’ His voice came out chocked, the realization dwelling on him.

‘I do!’ she protested ‘I mean…you can change face and all but…you’ve never really _changed._ ’

‘What do you mean?’

‘It means that all those years, you were always the same person with a different face, and I know _you’_ she declared ‘you are kind and compassionate, and you don’t do it because someone tells you to do it, you don’t do it because it’s just or because it’s right, you do it because that’s who you are. You are infuriatingly naïve and stupidly knowledgeable and wise. And why are you even so calm all the time and…and so…’

He cut her off with a hug.

She kissed him.

A wispy, ephemeral brushing of her lips against his. The slight pressure still made his mouth tingle, and the same feeling washed through all of him.

It’s not enough.

When she pulled away she looked embarrassed, and almost ready to bolt. 

He pulled her in for another kiss.

And in that moment, the world split into five.

* * *

 

In the first world, The Stranger makes her into a being like him. She is life where he is death; She is rebellion where he is acceptance; She is bright where he is shrouded. 

And she is miserable as well.

For she cannot find her family nor can she avenge them. She can only ponder upon what could have been.

In the second world, he gives her the justice she seeks, and he delivers her enemies’ heads to her on a golden platter. His nature twists and his mind breaks, and chaos showers the earth.

And winter never ends.

In the third world, he lets her be a mortal and he pulls her in for another kiss, and another, and another.

They become lovers, and his heart grows warm.

The world changes forever, summer comes in an instant and remains. And nature only regains its balance when each season lasts for only three moons.

Living things that cannot adapt end, and everything else that needed them ends as well.

In the fourth world, he tries to cheat destiny, and he becomes mortal to live with her.

Except that no one is ever truly mortal again. People never die, and the world becomes full of them. Soon, they begin to war because there is not enough food and water and land for everyone. People’s minds become rigid and unchanging and the tenderness of children that hardens with age almost disappears to oblivion.

The fifth world is the one he is in, and he makes his choice.

* * *

 He lets her go.

He now knows what she is.

She is his heart.

But he cannot have one, for he not a judge but only Death and he shall forever welcome all.

And so The Stranger erases every memory of him from her mind, and he lets her go home. And he feels his heart twist as he watches her from across an endless distance.

Each night he visits her in her dreams, he talks with her and he asks her is she is ready to go yet.

And every night she answers ‘Not Today’ even when the words seem to sadden her.

And so he waits and he hopes for the say day she says yes.

After all he has time.

And he is patient.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I blame DA:I.

**Author's Note:**

> So this is a bit different from prayers, but I hope that you enjoy it just the same ;D


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